


A Man's Sport

by brokenEisenglas



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Fishing, Gen, challenge18, letswritesherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 01:38:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3310820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenEisenglas/pseuds/brokenEisenglas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Probably a late (a minute!) submission for the Letswritesherlock challenge on Tumblr... Oh, well. Here it is.</p>
<p>John's first trip with his father: it's a man's sport.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Man's Sport

            He was surprised the when his father made the announcement. With school on summer break, tensions were building in the Watson home. Two weeks before the end of session, Harriet told their parents, “I’m a lesbian,” and hell had broken loose. Their father stormed out of the house- going to the pubs, confirmed later that night with a slammed door and fighting anew- and mother screaming immediately about the indecency and unladylike and freakishness of Harriet’s choice.

            Through all this, John remained in his room hoping for the yelling to stop, for no one to be hurt, for no one to… well, he was only nine-years-old. He wasn’t quite sure what would happen if the fighting went too far.

            So, three weeks after the end of classes- and five weeks since Harry’s revelatory speech- this, what he could only call an ‘announcement,’ from his father came as a surprise.

            “Come on, John,” his father ordered. “Pack your bag. Bring a few days’ worth of clothes.”

            Not wanting to upset his father, John simply obeyed. They were going on a trip. He didn’t know where or for how long, but he made sure to pack enough clothes to last him more than a couple of days. After having surveyed his pack, stuffed a nearly filled sketchbook and pencils inside, and put-in an extra pair of trousers and socks (just in case), the youngest Watson child crept from his room and entered their living room. The one floor flat didn’t allow for much room to avoid the others.

            John listened as his father and mother spoke in hushed tones. Apparently, John heard, this was an educational trip, a trip that his mother and Harriet would not be attending.

            He sighed and slumped his shoulders… Only him and his dad, how exciting.

 

            The ride was long and tedious. His father droned on and on about football and ladies, but John could have cared less. He was not fooled about his father’s age- an approaching 52- and how long ago his footy years actually had been, nor was he interested in hearing the lewd comments and stories about the women his father knew before his mother.

            John vowed to grow to be a respectful man.

            Finally, his father quit talking and paid more attention to the roads. Wherever they were going, it wasn’t far off.

            John’s navy eyes watched as the hills passed by, their greenery full of life, full of grace. He ached to run amongst them if only to escape the disaster he believed these next few days would be.

            Down a dirt road, along a shallow bank, his father parked the car and turned in his seat to look at his son. If a stranger were to look at father and son together, he or she would not be able to spot the resemblance. John, by far, looked like his mother. Poor Harriet…

            “So,” his father began, “we’re gonna pull out the tents- don’t worry, I’ll show you how to put it together- and then we are going for a walk.”

            Finality. No room to object. The way his father liked it.

            The young boy nodded once and climbed from the vehicle. Best to start working now than to anger the devil later.

 

            Despite his father’s assumptions, John had set tents up before. He and his rugby mates did a campout one weekend in his best friend’s back yard. It had been one of the only weekends his father and mother had permitted him to stay away from home…

            This, however, was new.

            “Al’right. I got the anchor on for ya’. But, I’m gonna let you put on the hook. Watch,” and he did. John watched with rapt attention. Line through the eye, twisted twice, through the loop, then the loop again, and tightened. Snip off the extra bit. Take the worm and, in John’s opinion, inhumanely, thread it on the hook.

            “See. Wasn’t that hard. That there is probably the simplest tying for this. Doesn’t hold for too heavy a catch, but, it does the job.”

            John inspected his line and practiced a few tosses. He snagged a few clumps of grass before figuring out the best way to handle the line. When he got to the bank, the anticipation was a bit much for him to handle and he started having tremors.

            Behind him, he heard his father chuckle- a sound he hadn’t heard for months, at the least- and start walking towards him. Tensing a bit, John waited until he passed and was a good twenty feet away before letting out his first cast.

            Watching the line soar through the air and then plop into the water stirred in him a new feeling… something in him settled, made peace, and waited.

            He heard another _plop_ from downstream and saw his father setting his pole on the embankment, pulling out a cigar, and lighting the tobacco.

            Unhealthy. John promised himself that he would never smoke.

            Twenty minutes went by with nothing. John patiently held the rod, feeling for the signs of a nibble…

            Or a bite!

            “Father!”

            The man has startled and hopped up from his spot on the bank. He ran to his son and laughed jovially.

            “You got it, kid. Come on,” he took John’s hands and helped him to feel the snag, the fight, and then, the triumphant catch.

            “I got one, Dad!”

            Chuckling deeper, his father said, “Fishing is a man’s sport, son. Just have to know how to make the catch.”

            Even at the age of nine, John could tell it was his father’s way of giving him advice on how to find a woman…

 

            Twenty-nine years later, John sits in an old, rustic red chair with a Union Jack pillow at his lower back, a cup of tea in his hand, and a book on the table as he watches his flat mate play his violin in front of the old mini-grand piano they own.

            Funny how he always thought his “catch” would be a woman…

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to try subject matter I've not read yet... I personally love to fish. It is one of my favorite past times. Let me know if this "domestic" worked...
> 
> Also: Fishing is NOT strictly a man's sport. No. I'm a girl and I fish better than my brother's combined. I made sure dad taught me how to fix my rig. (chuckles).


End file.
